Secret Weapon
by Carol
Summary: John tries to make things up to a sickly Dean after he ditches him for a hunt. Sick/comfort ensues. Pre-series with Sam away at Stanford.


Secret Weapon

By Carol M

Summary: John tries to make things up to a sickly Dean after he ditches him for a hunt. Pre-series with Sam away at Stanford

Spoilers: Maybe a few here and there…

Disclaimers: Don't own em, only love em

Note: Here's some John/Dean sick/comfort with a little angst thrown in for good measure. Enjoy!

John set the bags down on the floor of the motel and turned on the light. The fact that he had to turn on a light at 7 in the evening was a bad sign. The light should be on or the room should've been illuminated by the light from a television. But the motel room was pitch black.

Guilt crept at the back of his throat as he saw that Dean was buried under three layers of blankets in the bed farthest from the door. He was out like a light. The only signs of life coming out of him were the soft sounds of boogery wheezing camouflaged as a snore. If he didn't know any better, he'd say his son hadn't moved an inch since he had left him at first light that morning. He crept towards the bed, seeing just the top of Dean's hair peeking out from the blankets.

"Dean?"

He pulled the blankets down to reveal the face of his obviously very infirmed son. The first telltale sign that all was very wrong in the world of Dean Winchester was his hair. It wasn't styled and there wasn't even a trace of hair product in it. It just lay there slightly damp and tousled against his forehead. Besides the hair, there was the face. There were the dark, puffy circles under his eyes, the flush of fever in his cheeks, the red dry skin at his nostrils. Dean's lips were chapped and cherry red, most likely from the breath puffing out from his mouth instead of his clogged nose. He could also see Dean's adam's apple bobbing painfully through a swallow of an obviously sore throat even in sleep.

"Dean, wake up."

Dean moaned and flinched away from the light that the pulled down blankets had exposed to his eyes.

"Come on buddy, open those pretty boy eyes of yours."

"Dad?" Dean's voice was deep and scratchy. He sounded awful. His eyes fluttered open and he glanced around the room, his eyes wide and vivid green. If you overlooked the excess stubble on his chin, Dean looked about four years old.

"How you feeling, son?"

"How was the hunt?" Dean's eyes met his briefly, flashing pain, betrayal and abandonment all whipped up into an epic kicked puppy dog look of which his son was a master. "You get it?"

John could tell right away that Dean was trying not to be mad about being excluded from the hunt or about being left alone when he was so sick. But he was. It was right there in his eyes. He hated when he saw that look there. He wanted to erase it. Dean thought he didn't know, but he always knew. Hell, he was Dean's father. It was his job to know. He knew his son better than Dean knew himself. Of course, Dean didn't have to be aware of that last detail.

"Got it." John went and grabbed the bags he dropped on the floor earlier and set them down on the bed. "Would've gone a lot smoother if you'd been there with me."

It had been a tough hunt. He needed to remind himself why he was doing it and why he had abandoned his son to go do it in the first place. He knew it was all about giving moments like these to other families. It was selfish to put that on Dean. God, he'd put enough on Dean. But his boy was strong and brave. He was such a better man than John could ever hope to be. He hoped to God one day Dean would realize that. But that was a whole other issue. Right now, he needed to take care of his own family. He needed to get Dean feeling better and to make things right between them. He needed to put the twinkle back in his son's eye. And he needed to make his boy smile.

Dean sneezed. "Told ya you should've waited til I was better." He went into hack mode as his eyes drifted towards the bags on the bed. "What you got there?" He cleared his throat harshly and wiped some dripping snot onto his arm.

"Motel infirmary." John pulled a box of Kleenex out of the bag and set in on Dean's chest. "Blow your nose. You got a whole family of bats living in the cave."

Dean wrinkled his nose and then sat up, grabbing for the box. "I'm sick. Can't help it." He took out a tissue and blew his nose very hard and very loudly into the tissue as if to illustrate his point. When he was finished, he balled up the tissue and threw it on the floor next to his bed.

John eyed the tissue and then looked at Dean. "You know you're gonna be the one to pick those up when you're better, right?"

" Of course, sir." Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "So what else?"

John reached into the bag and pulled out some Robitussin.

"Cough medicine?" Dean mocked throwing up and then had to hold back a heave for real. "I would've preferred whiskey. That'll burn anything out of you."

"Don't think your stomach could handle it, cowboy."

"Whatever. What else you got?"

John reached into the bag and pulled out the heavy duty cold and flu medicine and tossed it at Dean. It hit him in the chest and landed at his side. Dean grasped it and blurrily tried to read the box. "Extra strength?"

"I.D. required."

"The good stuff." Dean's eyes flashed a glimmer of mischief. "They seriously carded you, dad?"

"Moving on."

John pulled a jar of Vic's Vapor Rub out of the bag and handed it to Dean, who cocked an eyebrow. "You gonna rub it on me there, big boy?"

"Think I'll leave that lovely task to one of your girlfriends. Smartass."

"I don't have any girlfriends."

"Give it a few hours. You will."

That earned a small knowing smile out of his son before he erupted into another coughing fit. When he was finished, he swallowed harshly, grimacing in pain. John pulled out a box of sore throat pops from the bag. Dean eyed the box strangely. "What the hell are those?"

"They're refreshing medicinal popsicles for sick kids that are stubborn and won't take their medicine."

Dean let a chuckle slip. "And why would you ever group me into that particular category, dad?"

"Because I've known you for 24 years."

"Point taken. Least they're cherry. What else you got in that bag of tricks?"

John pulled out a few cups of microwavable soup.

"Those would probably work better if we had a microwave in our room, man." Dean's eyes were lighter now…amused. Tired as hell, but in better spirits.

"There's one by the front desk, dude. You think I'm that dense?"

"Tomato and rice?"

"Is there any other kind?"

Dean was smiling wider now. The hurt look was gone from his eyes. But the sparkle still wasn't quite there.

John reached into the very bottom of the bag and paused. He looked up at Dean. "I don't know if you can handle this last thing. It might be too much for you."

"Whaddaya got a blow up doll in there or something?" Dean eyed him eagerly. "I can handle it. Give it to me, whatever it is."

Nothing like putting a little orneriness in his son's spirit. John lifted out a miniature chocolate pie complete with whipped cream and sprinkles from the bottom of the bag.

Dean's eyes lit up like it was Christmas and his lips curled into a huge grin. "You bought me pie?"

"Yeah I bought you pie. Just don't puke it all up."

Dean took the box from him and opened it up. He dipped his finger in the whipped cream and took a taste. He glanced up at him, beaming. "No sir, I won't do that."

"Good. Eat what you want and then we'll get the cold medicine in you. Should knock the crud right out."

Dean nodded and tasted another dollop of whipped cream. "Thanks dad."

John smiled. "You're welcome, son."

That's All Folks!


End file.
